


Safest If You Ran

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [2]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Creampie, Footplay, Frottage, Gratuitous Smut, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Husk (Hazbin Hotel), M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sex Positive Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Unsafe Sex, Unspecified Lockdown Scenario
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: It's the day after the lockdown (among other things) and nobody knows what to do. Angel is frustrated. Alastor still hasn't acknowledged the night prior. Husk is oblivious.All of these things combined makes Angel feel like he's living in a simulation, or a game.He thinks he's losing.Featuring: floundering Angel, devious Alastor, and misanthropic Husk.
Relationships: Alastor & Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust & Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 15
Kudos: 262





	Safest If You Ran

**Author's Note:**

> The aftermath.

Angel shifts in his seat.

His other two roommates mind their business, preferring to focus on more prosaic matters, like drinking breakfast, or reading the newspaper. Angel should be doing the same, except he can’t.

He’s been twitchy this entire time, and it’s all Alastor’s fucking fault.

The late morning sunlight streams in between the blinds, effusing the kitchen and dining room in nebulous light. Silverware clinks with every spear of food: loud, tinny noises adrift in an ocean of silence. Husk, hell-bent on ignoring them both, sips his breakfast whisky after shoveling eggs in his mouth. Alastor, on the other hand, is single handedly focused on his newspaper, having set his fork and knife neatly to the side after cleaning his plate. He’s on his second cup of coffee, and brings the mug to his lips in an open arch, muscles indenting a line down his forearm.

Angel clenches as a burning spike of arousal shoots to his groin. He chews his lip as he shifts, the movement jostling the plug.

It’s distracting at the very least, and maddening at the most.

The consummate bastard still hasn’t told him if he could remove it yet, and Angel’s becoming antsier by the minute.

He’s been half hard since eight that morning, when he awoke to yesterday’s play by play in his mind’s memory, drowning in the ensuing what-have-I-dones while the inevitable panic set in.

Angel had been dreading the confrontation all morning only for it to not happen at all. He’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed. It’s a confusing marriage of emotions, so Angel elects to pretend nothing ever happened.

Which is easier said than done.

He sneaks yet another glance at Alastor, anxiety and longing twining in his gut. Alastor shakes out the paper with every turn of the page. His attention is everywhere except on Angel. It’s downright frustrating.

He sighs into his orange juice. He doesn’t feel much like eating, so he scrapes the food around his plate, watching as it congeals into a gooey mass.

The silver lining to all this lockdown ennui is that he isn’t required to come in to work. Now, he could catch up on the series he’d always meant to watch. Or improve his rusty Italian. Learn a new skill.

As it stands, Angel’s also learning quite a bit about his roommates. It’s equal parts infuriating and endearing.

Husk, having eaten and drunk his fill of breakfast, breaks the silence.

“Ya know what I’m gonna say when assholes ask me what I did today? Jack shit. ‘Husk, whatcha gonna do tomorrow?’ Jack shit. ‘For the next two weeks?’ Jack shit. ‘For the rest of the goddamn year?’ Jack shit, jack shit, jack shit. It’s jack shit all the way down.”

“You’re being dramatic, per usual. Word is, the lockdown will only last the weekend.”

“Yeah? They tell you that for your goddamn radio show?”

“As a matter of fact, _yes_.”

Scratch that.

It’s mostly infuriating.

He pushes away from the table, chair scuffing on the linoleum. Their heads jerk towards the sudden sound, Alastor’s eyes slitting before pointedly looking at the floor under the chair legs. Husk furrows his brow.

“The fuck? You okay, kid?”

“Peachy,” he spits before standing up, trying not to flinch at the sudden movement. He’s not used to being ignored, especially not by Alastor.

At least, not anymore.

“Angel, I’d prefer it if you didn’t mark up the floor. I’m sure we’d all like to see our deposit back,” Alastor drawls low, eyes flashing.

Angel supresses a shiver at the tone. He paints on a scowl.

“I’m headin’ up. This lockdown’s drivin’ me batshit,” he says truthfully before turning away. Husk grunts in agreement.

“Oh? Any particular plans?”

Angel doesn’t quite manage to suffocate this shudder that courses through his body at the familiar timbre. He hopes Alastor didn’t notice, but knowing his luck, he already has.

“Just some chores. Throwin’ out some stuff, removin’ shit, ya know. Just clearin’ house,” he says, pausing under the arch. His heart pounds as he throws out the implication.

Alastor catches it with ease.

“Hm. Best not be too thorough. It would be remiss if you discarded anything _important_ now, wouldn’t it?”

His voice is honeyed and disingenuously sweet.

Angel sharply inhales through his nose, nails digging crescent moons into his palms. His beats-per-minute climbs steadily with every second he’s pinned under Alastor’s undivided scrutiny, but he manages to answer in the affirmative.

“Right,” he says, before turning tail.

Bounding up the stairs, erection thickening with every step, he hears Husk’s admonished sigh.

“Al, I’m sure the kid knows what he’s doing. Ya don’t gotta nag him. He’s grown. He knows what’s good for him.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Angel shuts the door and leans back, praying for guidance.

He’s met with radio silence.

* * *

“Working hard, or…”

Angel’s eyes snap open.

He startles, almost rolling off the bench.

Alastor smiles beatifically down at him, face eclipsing the sun. He’s all smiles now, but Angel isn’t foolhardy enough to forget the teeth. He glares up at him, heart attack subsiding with every passing moment.

“Whaddaya want?” he asks, feeling like prey. “I miss anythin’?”

He breathes in near relief as Husk rounds the corner.

He’s scowling, shirt peppered with sweat, and crosses his arms as soon as he gets within speaking distance. Alastor goes first.

“We’ve decided on having a movie marathon,” Alastor cheerfully exclaims.

“To distract us from the fucking monotony of this goddamn prison.”

“To stave off boredom during this lockdown period,” Alastor translates, narrowing his eyes at Husk. He extricates himself from Angel’s immediate personal space, stepping back under the shade.

Angel squints.

The sun is still high in the sky, although the light has mellowed from butter into amber. He props himself up on his elbows, then tilts his head skyward. He salutes, gauging the progression of time by color, sights, and sound. A bumblebee buzzes in lazy loops overhead.

“When?” he asks, already half knowing the answer. He turns to watch Alastor.

“Eh, we’re thinking more like after dinner, sometime around nine?”

Alastor nods in agreement, arching a brow at Angel’s newly directed attention. Eyes darkening, he parts his mouth, darts out the tip of his tongue, and traces his canine.

Angel swallows.

He immediately doesn’t plan on eating dinner tonight.

“It’ll be very entertaining!” Alastor promises, with undisguised glee.

Angel, having lost leave of his senses since yesterday, ostensibly agrees.

“Yeah, sure. I’m game.”

Famous last words.

Alastor’s eyes flash.

“Marvelous,” he purrs through sharp, beckoning teeth.

Angel shivers, despite the heat.

* * *

Them’s the breaks, he guesses.

Husk claims the recliner (“Shotgun, bitches” and Alastor snipes, “This is a living area, not a car”) so Alastor and Angel graciously get to bunk on the couch.

It’s unreasonably chilly that night, the heater having been broken earlier in the week according to Alastor. After Angel’s diatribe consisting of pure bitching, Husk stomps over and dumps a blanket over his head. It’s a huge one, enough to cover eight people at least. Husk had bought it at Cost-Us-Less in the mysterious sometime before he moved in.

“That’s all you’re gonna get,” Husk grumbles as he stalks back to his chair. “Unless ya wanna drag out the sheets from your room, in which case, be my fucking guest.”

He takes a long pull of his beer, having switched from hard alcohol after dinner. Angel didn’t know much about pacing, but Husk crowed, “Beer before liquor, never sicker; liquor before beer, you’re in the clear” during dinner like anyone asked, and of course no one did.

On the far end of the couch, Alastor clears his throat. Angel looks at him, heart beginning its new-normal, frantic pace.

“I’m game to share,” Alastor purrs. “If you are.”

Angel colors, face alight with fire. He clutches the blanket, fingers sinking into the fur, and prays silently for strength.

“Sure,” he rasps, hating himself. Smile widening disconcertingly, Alastor reaches over and pulls the blanket over his legs. He makes a pleased, rumbling noise, and Angel’s brain temporarily goes offline.

Apparently, so does the television.

Husk stands up, cursing, and ambles to the TV, fiddling with the wires.

“Did you turn it off and then on again?” Alastor’s mocking lilt calls out.

“I’ll turn you off if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

Angel can’t help it; he snickers.

“Watch it, kid. You’re next,” he half-heartedly vows before standing up and nodding to himself in satisfaction. He slumps back into the recliner and lifts the remote, grumbling.

The screen flashes on, and Angel settles in for a long night.

* * *

The movie isn’t half bad, Angel thinks. If only he could fucking hear it.

He spares a glance at Husk. He’s snoring, out like a light. He’d tapped out thirty minutes into the movie, and Angel can’t blame him: Husk had been drinking steadily since breakfast, which is not what Angel hopes he normally does, and even seasoned alcoholics had their limits. He blames the lockdown, personally.

Everyone’s on the cusp of losing their collective minds.

A trickle of drool dribbles from his mouth, his head bent at an awkward, unnatural angle. He shudders in disgust. Angel contemplates waking him up just for that, if not for the eardrums of everybody in the room.

Speaking of.

Alastor’s propped up on the heel of his hand, seemingly engrossed in the film. His eyes are partially obscured by his glasses. The film scenes reflect in the lenses. Angel takes a minute to trace his profile, drinking in the features illuminated by the muted televisual glow. His heart twists, overwrought somehow, with longing.

His skin prickles where it isn’t being touched by Alastor, and it’s _torture_.

As if sensing Angel’s switch in focus, he smiles, slow at first. It swiftly grows into a malicious smirk, his eyes never leaving the screen. Angel bristles with pique, but desire also creeps in.

Alastor’s _waiting_.

Angel sneaks another glance at Husk.

Out cold.

Fine, he thinks, pettily. Two can play.

He painstakingly uncrosses his legs. Propping his back against the arm of the couch, he stretches out his legs so that his feet find purchase in Alastor’s lap. Alastor, ever the reprobate, shifts and catches his toes in an open, waiting palm.

Struck by a bold and stupid idea, he points his toes and glides his arch along the length of Alastor’s growing erection. He undulates the sole of his foot where he’s reasonably certain his cockhead is, and rocks in. He hears the quiet gasp before he witnesses it, which causes him to preen in delight. Alastor, composure momentarily broken, glares.

He sucks in a breath, flitting narrowed eyes at Angel’s audacity. In warning, he weaves his fingers through Angel’s toes and flexes them backwards, which only makes Angel whimper. He tries to keep quiet, but it’s an exercise in futility, especially as Alastor massages his feet, occasionally coaxing his heels onto his dick.

Husk stirs, all of a sudden, and Angel wrenches his legs back, quickly settling back into a sitting position. He inadvertently tugs the blanket with him and off Alastor, who hastily snatches part of it back to cover his lap. He glowers at Angel while Husk yawns once before rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, shit, this the end? Why didn’t you assholes wake me up?” Husk bitches, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Husker, you managed to sleep through two earthquakes,” Alastor snipes. “Small wonder we didn’t try.”

Husk gestures rudely at him. He stands up, arching backwards, hands on hips. A cracking noise follows and Angel flinches. His hand wanders just below his sweats and he scratches. Alastor’s nose wrinkles.

“Can you not,” he begins, but Husk interrupts him.

“Gonna take a leak,” he says. Squinting one eye, he lifts his arm, then sniffs.

“And a fast shower,” he adds, grimacing.

He looks over towards the couch.

“You dicks make up your minds ‘bout what to watch next. I’ll be out in a few.”

With that, he moves out of the room and starts up the stairs.

* * *

There’s a beat after Husk leaves, where everything is charged.

The hallway light flicks on, bathing the room in scattered phosphorescence, softening sharp edges under its murky glow. The staircase creaks with his weight, and the footsteps disappear into darkness.

They stare at each other, gazes having gone both predatory and beseeching. The air crackles with amped electricity. The errant hairs on his arms stand up on end while a furious ball of anticipation roils in his stomach. Angel can barely make out the ticking of the hallway clock over his resounding heartbeat.

_Tick, tock._

_Tick. Tock._

_Tick._

He bites his lip.

_Tock._

Alastor _pounces_.

Angel swings his legs back on top of the couch and lies back. He parts his legs, obeisant.

Alastor fits his body in the gap between them. He digs into the tops of Angel’s boxer briefs, hooks his fingers, and tugs down. Angel lifts his hips to aid the process. Snarling, Alastor shoves down his sweatpants-and oh, no briefs this time, Angel’s mind unhelpfully supplies-and pulls out his cock. Alastor drags it against Angel’s naked thigh, smearing behind a wet trail of precum. Angel bites down a whine as the hot weight of it slides up against Angel’s own. His hips fly up without volition as Alastor hisses and meets him in the middle.

It’s _everything_ , the skin to skin, and there’s a split second where he thinks, _Finally_.

They rock into each other clumsily at first, brainless with lust, before settling into a pleasurable rhythm. Angel tucks his chin and stares down at their cocks pressed between their stomachs, the supple slide china-white in his veins.

 _God_ , does Alastor have a beautiful cock, his treacherous mind rambles, as it ruts up against his.

They fit perfectly together, like Angel was always meant for him. And vice versa.

All of a sudden, Alastor reaches and wraps a hand around them both, and Angel’s hips lift impossibly high. He moans, almost inaudibly, once, but it’s enough. Alastor’s eyes flash. He leans back and adjusts the angle, giving an experimental stroke. Angel parts his mouth at the change before a hand slaps down on it, effectively muzzling him.

He lowers his lids, luxuriating under the firm gag. He watches the muscles in Alastor’s hand shift with each rock forward. Alastor smirks down at him, all too knowingly.

Angel narrows his eyes.

Brattish, he opens his mouth under Alastor’s hand and _licks_. He drags his tongue over his palm, tracing the creases and tasting his skin. Alastor’s eyes darken as the beast inside begins rousing.

It’s _famished_.

Alastor lifts his hand, and Angel exhales.

Instantly, Alastor seizes this chance and shoves his fingers into Angel’s open mouth. Angel gasps around the intrusion, writhing under Alastor’s weight. His fingers pull down his jaw, and Angel threads his tongue around whatever he can. He bites gently down, just to be difficult.

Alastor lets out a harsh breath at that, then reluctantly pulls his fingers away. Gazing down at him with deceptively calm eyes, he swipes his thumb across Angel’s bottom lip, pressing down where his lips meet.

He mouths out a silent shush, eyes turned up in a smile.

Angel sharply inhales, furious. His nostrils flare, and Alastor’s smirk widens. His hand leaves Angel’s face and runs a trail down his chest, ending at the bottom of his shirt. He cocks his head in mock confusion.

Asshole, Angel thinks for the umpteenth time.

Angel grabs and hikes the hem of his shirt up to his neck, treating Alastor to swathes of pinkened, freckled skin. Alastor’s warm hands roam back over his chest, gently scraping on the path up. Angel arches, bowlike, at the needling sensation.

Then, Alastor is holding the hem to his mouth, pressing the fabric up against his lips.

“Bite,” Alastor mouths.

Angel does.

Alastor smiles at his compliance and leans down to kiss his forehead. He moves lower still, to the shell of his ear and whispers, “Good boy” before pulling back.

Angel’s dick twitches at the praise.

Alastor slots himself to a better angle between Angel’s thighs. He wraps his hand around their cocks and resumes stroking. It’s a brutal pace, but the precum from both their cocks assist with the slide. Angel’s hips bounce up with every long pull of his large hand, the heat in him driving towards an undulating crescendo.

Alastor looms over him, animalistic and fiercely _feral_. There’s an ecstatic hunger crackling just below the surface, and if he ventures too close, it’ll snap and scorch him. Angel, drunk off some misguided quixotic impulse, yearns for the pyre.

He’s all high cheekbones, square jaw, and dark eyes. Classically handsome.

Devil in disguise, Angel thinks.

If he’s not careful, Alastor will flay him open, tear him apart. A growing part of Angel wants to be overrun; desecrated. Alastor, for his part, seems to deduce that just from his quickened breaths, involuntary trembling, pupils blown wide.

He’s cunning and despicable and right now, all Angel’s.

Alastor’s clever fingers dance on his cock, pumping down as he thrusts up. Alastor inclines his head and Angel watches him. His eyes are dark and his lips are _massacred_. It looks inadvertent, like he was restraining the beast until it finally broke free from its bonds.

It’s a Herculean effort not to surge up and soothe him, but Angel manages.

He’s shaking besides, and unable to control the force of his pleasure, brought apart by Alastor’s wicked machinations. Alastor squeezes harder, twisting his palm over the conjoined heads, and pushes a nail into his slit.

Angel bucks into the furnace heat of Alastor’s hand and unravels.

He’s momentarily blinded as he explodes. Come spurts along his stomach and chest. His toes curl, and he arches off the couch. Alastor’s hand continues to milk him as his cock pulses in tandem with his heart beat. The come adds an excess slipperiness to the frotting, and he spills the last of himself on Alastor’s fingers and cock.

Alastor swears, low, and Angel’s blissed out mind dimly registers the rhythm turning erratic. He’s impressively hard, rutting against Angel’s own softening cock. Angel dreamily wonders how he was able to take that monster inside the night prior.

He doesn’t get a chance to ruminate for long as Alastor’s hand breaks away.

Using his other arm, he hooks under Angel’s thighs and shoves them up. His knees just about hit his chest and at once he knows what Alastor plans to do.

Without preamble, Alastor yanks the plug from his ass, lines up, and fucks in. Angel, teeth still snagged in his shirt, whimpers softly at the intrusion. It hardly burns, due to all the stretching from yesterday and the last strings of come coating his insides, but the sudden girth of it still shocks him.

 _Finally,_ he thinks again, as he’s deliciously filled. _Finally._

It’s not a moment too soon. Alastor comes, his breath falling unevenly from his lips, hips snapping forward. He arches, skin flush against Angel. Alastor gazes down at him, enamoured, with a tinge of awe. Angel sighs and clenches, coaxing the last few spurts into his body.

After spilling fully, Alastor pulls out and tucks himself back into his sweatpants. He picks up the plug, winking at him as he glides it back into place.

Angel, torn between indignation and desire, settles for the latter. He gasps, letting his shirt fall from his mouth at last.

They look at each other for a moment. Angel’s heart skips as he observes the languid contentment in Alastor’s features, the beast inside satiated for the time being. Alastor smiles, and Angel desperately wants to see what’s reflected in his own face, if his own expression reveals everything. Alastor tilts his head, regarding him with unreadable eyes, then reaches out a hand. Angel leans closer and lowers his lids, anticipating.

The door creaks audibly open, and they fly apart.

Angel ducks under the blanket, yanking up his briefs. Alastor shoots to the opposite end, and fishes for something beneath the cushions. He lurches his hand back, successful. Angel cocks his head as Alastor brings the bottle high in the air and sprays five times in quick succession, before shoving it back into the couch.

A “what the fuck” is on the tip of his tongue when he spots movement near the staircase.

The hallway light clicks off and Husk ambles in, leaving behind a scent of their shared body wash and stale cigarettes in his wake.

“That’ll do it,” he says, falling back into his recliner. “Ain’t one hundred, but it’s enough.”

He sneezes, a booming sound, and it echoes.

“Fucking allergies,” he mutters, and the piece clicks into place. Angel gapes at Alastor, who has since affected a bored mien.

He’s starting to realize that he’s vastly underestimated him.

Husk kicks his feet off the floor and uses the momentum to swivel towards them.

“What’re we watching now?”

Angel doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he’s relieved when Alastor does.

“Why, Husker, we were waiting on you!” He bares his teeth. “You know I can’t trust Angel,” he says, dark eyes flicking over to his, devious.

“He has _appalling_ taste.”

Angel’s impressed at Alastor’s range. He takes a stab at it.

“Fuck off, Al. Not everyone wants to watch ‘Casablanca’ three times in a row.”

Husk sighs. “Jesus, guys. Knock it off. How about we rock, paper, scissors the damn thing. Winner picks the next one.”

Alastor swings his legs up and over the couch. He stretches, supine, and pillows his head on the arm. His foot dips under the blanket and brushes up against Angel’s thigh. It feels like a torrid weight.

A brand.

Beneath the blanket, Angel wraps a hand around his foot. Alastor answers, sinking his heel further in.

Angel grins, warmth blossoming in his chest.

“I’m game.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title is a lyric from the song, “Blood in the Cut” by K.Flay.
> 
> 2\. China white was known as a type of pure grade heroin, but recently it’s used as a term for fentanyl.
> 
> 3\. It is not advisable to keep an anal plug inside for that long. Some people do it, but your mileage may vary. I don't personally recommend it.
> 
> 4\. Did the heater really break Alastor
> 
> Next: More roommate shenanigans involving these three, trying my hand at a popular trope
> 
> As usual, thanks for reading.


End file.
